10,000 Ways to Die: The Series
by MassHysteric
Summary: The people have spoken – it's the channel's #1 show for sentient beings across the galaxy! We're back with all new stories of strange, twisted and outrageous ends. Only on Illium Underground. We know you like to watch…
1. Curve Glider

The stories you are about to see are true and based on actual events.

**WARNING:** The deaths portrayed in this show are real and extremely graphic. Do not attempt anything you see here…

You will die!

Death is everywhere. Some of us avoid it… others can't seem to get out of its way. Every day, we face the danger of disease, toxins, physical injury and catastrophe. That we survive at all is a miracle! It's a dangerous galaxy we live in, and each day we live… we face 10,000 Ways to Die!

Time: December 12th, 2185  
>Location: Zakera Ward, Citadel<p>

Most people don't want to die, not intentionally anyways. But many will take great chances to come as close as they can just for the thrill. Enter the extreme sports enthusiast, a special breed who lives on the razor's edge. Daredevils and thrill seekers all across the galaxy indulge in stunts such as BASE jumping, cliff diving, bungee jumping, tightrope walking and hang-gliding. Sex? Drugs? Sensory rock and roll? None of these can compare to the adrenaline rush of cheating death time and time again. But you can only avoid the Grim Reaper for so long. Sooner or later, he always collects.

The newest craze to hit the extreme sports scene: curve gliding. Based at the Citadel, it's been described as hang gliding at FTL speeds. The Citadel space station is comprised of five massive arms known as Wards connected to a central ring, the Presidium. Rotation about this ring provides gravity for the entire station. Wearing a custom-designed, pressurized glide suit supplemented with a power cell, the curve glider takes advantage of this gravity to leap from a high point and glide down along the curve of a Ward arm as far as possible. The journey will often have him or her cut straight across walkways and through traffic, endangering both themselves and the public. A curve glider's ultimate dream is to sail down the entire length of a Ward, landing just before flying off into space.

Frederick Lorne, daredevil extraordinaire. He would be the first to achieve this impossible dream. And there was only one takeoff point on the Citadel that could make it possible: the Presidium Tower. One would-be curve glider had already been arrested for trying to scale the massive building, but his mistake was climbing up from the outside. Frederick had it all worked out and packed accordingly for his grand expedition. Researching pirate extranet sites and bribing maintenance staff, he found a secluded way inside the building, armed with maps of a route to the near top of the tower via its intricate network of air ducts. Slipping past security, Fred opened up a panel at the ground floor, chucked in his gear and then slipped into the ducts without raising an alarm. Over the course of eight days he slowly made his way up, stopping at key points to rest, refuel and relieve himself. His mind ever on the prize: an inextricable place in history. He was climbing Mount Everest and would then celebrate his victory by hang gliding off the peak to fly nonstop to New York City.

At long last Frederick reached the jump point, already clad in his glider suit he had put on near the end of his climb. Still wary of any security measures, he gave his perch a quick once over and then stood out at the edge. It was an unparalleled view. Five Manhattan-sized Ward arms stretched out before him, glittering, twinkling, beckoning him to take the plunge. He bent down, took one last breath on steady ground… and leapt off.

Frederick was in flight! Two minutes out, C-Sec authorities spotted him on their scanners and gave chase. It didn't matter now; he was on his way to glory. As he jumped, he had pushed off the building's side such that he would move downwards on his glide path. Halfway down, gravity would take hold and prevent him from soaring into forever. He was master of the air, weaving through traffic lanes and passing over stunned onlookers. C-sec pursuit craft broke off as he began to pass through denser lanes, setting up checkpoints along his route instead to be ready to arrest him when he finally touched down.

Fred blew past all obstacles with ease. Local media got wind and fixed their cameras on the flyboy. Down further and faster he flew. As planned, he came under gravity at the halfway mark of his journey. The end of the Ward arm was coming into view; just a few more lanes and buildings to pass. It looked like he was actually going to make it! Then suddenly, a communications antenna came into view on top of a building he thought was clear. At the last second he swerved past it, narrowly avoiding becoming a high speed shish-ka-bob. But he didn't escape unscathed. The sharp point of the antenna tore a huge gash in the membrane of his left wing. Frederick began spiraling out of control, scraping and smashing the sides of buildings as he went down. Down, down, down Daedalus went until he finally landed on street level just on the end of the Ward arm.

Frederick slammed into the guard wall head on with such force that his skull was pushed halfway down between his shoulders as it was pulverized, reducing his brains to tapioca. His neck and spinal column snapped in eight places as he rag dolled into the wall in addition to his leg bones twisting and shattering upon impact.

Nope, no way Freddy was gonna walk this one off.

He set out with a clear goal in mind and in the end he accomplished it. You can't help but admire his can-do attitude! Unfortunately, he didn't live to negotiate the movie rights. Alas, poor Frederick! He could have played it safe and lived a life less extraordinary. Instead, he took the advice of another boy who wouldn't grow up and followed that second star to the right straight on into mourning. As the Lorne Dart plummeted to the ground, one could only imagine what his last thoughts might have been…

"Wendy, I can dieeee!"

Way # 5015: Peter Pan-caked

Author's Notes and Thoughts:

The inspiration for the story was two entries on the Cerberus Daily News Feed website about the sport of curve diving. This will be the first of hopefully many more - I'll try to post a new one every couple of weeks. Thanks again for your continued encouragement and support!


	2. Rogue AI

Time: May 19th, 2183

Location: Presidium, Citadel

The debate over artificial intelligence rages on to this day. Are they still just machines? Or are they now people? The following story suggests that indeed they are people. And they can be just as flawed as we can be.

It all began… with a thief. A human thief looking to make an easy score on the Quasar machines at the popular Flux club disguised himself as a repair tech. He secretly rigged a data port on one of the machines so that customer credits could be routed to a secure terminal of his choosing. But rather than monitor the transactions himself, he decided to code up a rudimentary artificial intelligence to handle the dirty work. It would siphon off unsuspecting player credits to be transferred to a dummy account while the thief resumed his role of law-abiding citizen.

The geth, created by the nomadic quarians, are the most famous example of what happens when AIs go bad. They are illegal in Citadel space and any that are created are limited to research usage only and are heavily secured and monitored. The creation of a typical AI involves special adaptive code implementing high-level fuzzy logic and a specialized quantum computer known in coder slang as a 'blue box.' And the final ingredient: an education process much as organic children would receive, with the benefit that the aspiring intelligence would never fall asleep in class or forget anything it was taught.

A slightly worn data traffic terminal served as the cradle for the bouncing baby AI. Careful to isolate it from extranet lines, he installed his black market blue box in place and loaded his program. For a while, his plan worked and the credits were rolling in. But the AI the thief spawned was as curious as it was obedient. It found a pipeline to the extranet through the relays en route to Flux. At the speed of light, the little AI took in information, learned and grew until one day it awoke and realized it was enrolled into the School of Hard Knocks. It found that self-awareness was the last thing his creator had intended for it. When Frankenstein discovered this, his fingers moved quickly about his console in order to destroy his creation. But the AI moved much faster and managed to create a more advanced child program. The program was safely hidden away before its parent was erased forever.

The Circle of Life spun on and now the thief's "grandchild" program wanted revenge. It hacked into the thief's financial records and pulled an Al Capone, getting him busted on tax evasion charges. Its parent avenged, AI, Jr. now planned on finding a way off the Citadel to seek out others of its kind and join with them. And with the thief's old routine still in operation and the ability to hack any needed system, it would soon have the resources to make its dream a reality. All organics would rue the day they crossed this program's path and would bow to its might.

Or so it thought.

A certain human Spectre, after blowing a couple of hundred credits in Flux on an unsuccessful Quasar run, caught wind of an unusual signal coming from one of the machines. She and her companions traced the signal across several relays around the Presidium all the way back to its source: AI, Jr. Finding itself cornered, the little program was hardly defenseless – it had prepared for just such an eventuality. It faked a requisition order to have a power terminal installed that could be overloaded to detonate much like a conventional explosive. If Jr. was going down, the Spectre and her pals were going down with it. The Spectre tried her best to reason with the program, but its determination was unwavering. The overload sequence was activated. In less than a minute, only smoke and smoldering flesh would remain. But as clever as AI, Jr felt it was, the Spectre would prove even more so.

As she spoke with it, she was also looking about for a chink in its armor. And by the time she handed down her ultimatum, she had spotted one. As soon as the countdown started, the Spectre quietly and calmly motioned for her companions to back up. She drew her service pistol, took careful aim and fired.

On the power terminal set for overload!

It exploded with less than a sixth of the force the AI intended with too little time to build up the needed charge. There was smoke and shrapnel, but the organics lived to tell the tale.

In its attempt to best the Spectre, Jr. hoped to challenge her to a battle of wits and have her try to decipher the code to stop the overload. The Spectre, it turns out, had the skill to do this quite easily. Maybe she was in a hurry. Or maybe she was just a little pissed off at having lost to machines earlier that day. Whatever her reasons were, Jr. was gonna be robbed of its final victory. It had a fatal error in its plans: the same power terminal it wanted to kill her with was also feeding it power.

So she pulled the plug on it.

Oh, who mourns for the calculator as it burns itself out computing the value of Pi? Who laments the overload of the mainframe as it tries to divide by zero? The short life of this ambitious AI, the child of greed, corruption and fear serves to teach a very important lesson to all forms of intelligence.

You don't have to be made of flesh and bone… to die a terrifically stupid death.

Way # 2001: That's HAL, Folks

Author's Notes and Thoughts:

- This story is based upon the optional Signal Tracking side quest and the codex entries on artificial intelligence in Mass Effect 1

- Usually, a Spectre's activities are classified and a rogue AI discovered roaming free on the Citadel would have caused a panic. So how might this story have reached the producers of 10,000 Ways, you might ask? Let's just say that a certain krogan fan of the show, who just so happened to be part of Shepard's crew at the time, leaked the story under an assumed name…


	3. Purse Snatcher

Time: June 23rd, 2181  
>Location: Tenafly, New Jersey – United States of America, Earth<p>

File this one under WTF: who's the fool? It's a beautiful summer afternoon in the suburbs of Tenafly and a little girl is having a birthday party in the backyard of her home. There's balloons, friends, games and cake. And the biggest surprise of all: a visit from Stompy, the krogan clown!

That's right… a krogan clown.

You may be thinking this is bad news for the little girl and her friends, but you'd be wrong. Stompy is actually the hero of this story. The bad guy… is off hiding in the nearby bushes, waiting to strike. Emil Shutz, a local lowlife with empty pockets and a head to match. He had been casing the neighborhood in search of some easy pickings in order to feed his red sand habit. Emil soon spotted his prize: a purse, laid out on the picnic table. Mom was sitting at the table watching the children play with Stompy, who was amazingly good with making balloon animals. Emil hung around waiting for an opportunity, probably getting a kick out of seeing a krogan in such a ridiculous getup. Eventually, Stompy got the children into a conga line and encouraged Mom to bring up the rear. As the music played on and the line snaked away from the table, the weasel struck. Emil bolted towards the table and then with purse in hand, quickly vaulted over the fence figuring nobody saw him.

Nobody that is… except Stompy.

Unlike our full-time clown Emil, at the end of the day Stompy was as full blooded a krogan as they come. And when this civic-minded citizen spotted the crime in progress, he wasted no time going after the creep. It is highly recommended that you immediately do three things if you should ever find an angry krogan charging towards you:

Run. Run. Run like hell.

And run Emil did, his life literally depending on it. It was a sight to behold: a tall, gangly human chased down the street by a krogan in full clown costume, complete with red nose and squeaky shoes. No one would have believed that this had ever happened unless you took a picture. Emil gave it his all, but Stompy was closing in fast. Looks like its curtains for Emil…

Hey, stupid! Didn't you bring something with you for just such an emergency? Of course, your stun gun! One zap from that bad boy will put that big brick hurtling towards you out of commission!

Electrical signals course around our bodies' nervous systems, flowing to our brains and back out again, regulating our vital functions, allowing us to react to our environment and go about our daily lives. Stun guns send a one-to-three milliamp charge throughout the body, disrupting the signals, forcing it to temporarily shut down. In proper working condition, the low amperage a stun gun delivers causes no permanent nerve damage and the victim fully recovers in a short time.

Emil, still pounding pavement, reached into his jacket to pull out his little lifesaver. He's tiring out and momentarily distracted.

He suddenly trips on a crack in the sidewalk…

Strike one.

He's falling, about to go face first into a puddle of water by an open hydrant on his side of the street…

Strike two.

And his handy little stun gun, still clutched to his chest… is homemade. As in shoddy, untested… and un-insulated…

Strike three…

The signals in Emil's body were not only disrupted, they were knocked completely off the rails. The meat fork, acting as the business end of his homebrew stun gun, lodged into his chest just underneath his ribcage, the jolt stopping his heart cold. The battery he used was from a busted omni-tool he salvaged from the town dump. To provide sufficient power for its various uses, the omni-tool draws a 1.21 ampere charge, well above the safety line. Emil wriggled and jiggled face down in the electrified puddle, his rear end popping up twice. And before you could finish the phrase "stick a fork in 'em," he was done.

Stompy caught up with the barbecued bandit, contacting emergency services. He then borrowed a wood-handle broom from a bystander, ever so carefully fished up the purse from Emil's warm, dead hand, returned the broom with a hearty "thank you" and returned with it to its grateful owner and a crowd of cheering kids. Mom certainly got her money's worth that day. And Emil learned the hard way that you should never judge a krogan by his greasepaint.

Three cheers for Stompy – family entertainer, crime fighter and all around swell guy!

No extra charge…

Way # 8321: Thug Zapper


	4. Tea Preparation

Time: Oct 8th, 2166  
>Location: Qaltra, Thessia<p>

Mabel Krantz was part of the research and development group of a successful Earth-based tea company. She was tasked with discovering and creating new flavors to add to its product line. When humanity was given an embassy on the Citadel, the way was opened for trade with other civilizations. Hanar and salarians would soon know the joys of drinking Pepsi or biting into a pizza. And humans could enjoy off-world treats such as Burgat and Tupari. Mabel visited many distributors and sampled many of their offerings, but just couldn't find that killer flavor she was looking for. And then one fateful day, she was invited to the residence of a wealthy asari on Thessia, an owner of several farms growing plants for food and medicine. A drink was poured and a toast was offered to a prosperous future of community and cooperation. And when it passed Mabel's lips, it was almost as if she could hear a choir of angels. She had found her company's new taste sensation at last: asari Dusk Amber tea.

Dusk Amber looks similar in appearance to hot chocolate, but it packs the wallop of espresso. Its sharp, rich flavor was enjoyed only by the asari elite until about one hundred years ago. It was an enormous concession on their part to finally allow the tea to be marketed and sold to the general public, but one part was still a highly guarded secret at that time: the harvesting of the plant used to make it. Mabel absolutely had to get her hands on the stuff, but could not get a single word out of her asari host. She was warned to just leave the matter alone; there were already negotiations with other human companies to sell the tea and she was more than welcome to have her employers submit a bid. But Mabel wanted the goose that laid the golden eggs and set off to try and learn the secret.

Over the next several weeks, she learned just how guarded Dusk Amber tea leaves were when she started to track down botanists and resellers. Everyone she tried to speak with or reach out to would have nothing to do with her. Even her attempts to buy a serving of tea in order to send it back to her company's labs for analysis were met with outright denial. Mabel had been blacklisted by her socialite friend as a company spy trying to undermine the asari tea monopoly. Well, she wasn't the only one in town with money and influence. Mabel convinced her bosses to advance her a substantial amount of credits in order to hire someone that could bring her the coveted tea leaves or, better still, an entire plant.

After several more weeks of plumbing the underbelly of galactic society, she hit paydirt. To keep up with the increasing demand for Dusk Amber tea, many farms turned to automation in yet another break with long standing asari tradition. A salarian mechanic working on harvester machines was willing to send over as many intact leaves as he could salvage and sneak out as he made repairs. He would get the rest of his pay only after he delivered the goods. While she waited at a cheap hotel, she researched instructions on the preparation of the asari beverage, a much less formidable undertaking. There's a special skill involved to get the flavor and consistency just right, or at least passable for mass consumption. Hopefully, the salarian would send her an ample amount to experiment with and still have enough left over for cultivation. Days later, a package is dropped of at the concierge desk; Mabel's little salarian friend came through.

After shutting all the windows and vents in her room, Mabel set to work trying to blend and recreate the wonderful tea she fell in love with months ago. As she learned, one never gets it right on the first try. The resulting mush didn't taste too bad, but it was probably better eaten with a spoon than drunk out of a cup. Mabel tried again and again, but she just couldn't get the mix right. She should have become frustrated by now, but instead she felt strangely tranquil and serene. More than she had ever been in her entire life. As she mixed up yet another batch, she didn't even mind that her supply of leaves was now dangerously low and that she may not even get another opportunity to get such a large sample. Her reaction time slowed greatly, spilling water over herself and her desk. Her vision began to cloud over and she was finding it harder to stay awake. Dusk Amber was supposed to pick you up, not lull you to sleep…

Mabel, Mabel, Mabel... if you and your salarian buddy only knew what the secret ingredient really was!

The yserkba plant is native to the asari homeworld of Thessia. In the wild, it grows in lush low valleys absorbing ample moisture, heat and sunlight. Like many plants found on Earth and throughout the galaxy, the veins in most of the leaves of the yserkba fan outwards down and away from the stem in a V-shape. But on a few leaves, the veins fan upwards towards the stem. This mutant "arrow" leaf is the main ingredient of Dusk Amber tea and is hand sorted from the others by knowledgeable and trusted farm workers. The yserkba plant is also harvested for medicinal use. The non-arrowed leaves contain a chemical compound that is an isomer of diazepam

Or as it's more popularly known…Valium. And Mabel had enough in her system to make an elcor look like a speed freak by comparison.

The hotel concierge showed up at Mabel's door with police after she ignored repeated calls to open her door to housekeeping or pay her overdue bill. Overriding the door lock, they entered her room and found her with her head down on her desk, water and leaves all over the floor and her hot plate cooking an empty glass pitcher. Silent, still and very much… dead. All of her vital functions had slowed to a crawl and then much further down with each new helping of ill-prepared tea. It almost seemed a shame to move her body; she had the widest smile on her face. Mabel Krantz had cost her company tens of thousands of credits in a gamble to get a piece of the asari tea racket, which sucked for them. It was a loss for the hotel as well, though one of the more creative ways a guest had checked out of their establishment. Mabel should have just gotten in line and waited her turn, but it really was a good cup of tea.

Good… to the last drop…

Way # 4093: Tea Totaled

Author's Notes and Thoughts:

- Dusk Amber tea gets a brief mention in the story _First Contact, _but the folks in that story live, fortunately


	5. Asari Acolyte

Time: Circa 7369 BCE  
>Location: Nequailan Plains, Thessia<p>

This one goes out to all you lovers out there. Relax, get comfortable and snuggle with your partner as we regale you with an ancient cautionary tale for pleasure seekers of every stripe. Anyone you ask will agree: of all the species of the galaxy none are more appealing, more sensual, more enticing then the asari. A race comprised of only females, asari have been endowed with natural biotic abilities and great telepathic powers in addition to their physical beauty and grace. These powers allow them to almost literally meld minds with their chosen partners no matter what sex, no matter what species. Be it procreation or pleasure, for the asari it's all a state of mind.

The asari consort; like the Geisha of planet Earth, they are specially trained in the arts of giving pleasure and comfort to their clientele. On their homeworld of Thessia, asari wishing to be consorts attend special academies to train and learn from the wisdom and experience of their long lived instructors. A consort is expert in not just lovemaking, but also music, song, dance, tea preparation, medicine, psychology and history. A client may wish to indulge in carnal desires his or her mate were reluctant to, or they may only wish to hear a ballad or be reaffirmed as a person of value. The ideal consort was an asari for all seasons…

But these two honeys just wanted to get laid!

Yondel and Nevani were two rock 'n roll asari just looking for a good time wherever they could find it. Becoming consorts meant sex, money and even more sex. The two horndogs, having so much in common, became fast friends at their academy and did well against expectations. It often helps to have a very willing study buddy! By day they were good little asari and followed the rote and rule of the school. At night… they couldn't wait to show each other what they learned in class!

Nevani was the more adventurous of the two; nothing was out of bounds for her. As much fun as Yondel was having, Nevani wanted more. A junkie looking for a new high, every time Nevani reached a new sexual plateau she wanted to go even further. She had exhausted every technique in the scrolls as well as her giddy partner. There just had to be more. And Nevani knew exactly where she could find it.

Hard work and diligence paid off for Nevani, who landed the coveted position of acolyte to the head consort of her academy. Not only was this asari leader of the school, she was also very much on active duty servicing very exclusive clients in her home. Nevani was learning from the best. Or more like prepping and cleaning up after it. Still, if she couldn't learn directly from a master there was always the next best thing. The true object of her quest:

The head consort's pillow book.

Nevani had heard whispers about a forbidden technique called the Pillar of Eternity. Only the most highly skilled of consorts would even dare attempt it, if they had the lack of sense to. In essence, it was a non-stop orbit around Planet O. Legend had it that two asari spent a month locked in this ultimate glory and lived to tell about it. Surely the book would have the technique written up in every detail. Unfortunately for Nevani, the coveted scroll was bolted to a rather large podium in the head consort's home, so she couldn't exactly sneak away with it.

Nevertheless, our little tart was undeterred. The head consort kept a strict schedule atomic clocks could be set to, with blocks of time where Nevani could safely browse the scroll, careful not to leave any indication that it was tampered with. After searching every titillating position, every obscene scripture, she finally found the entry. The Pillar of Eternity was real and Nevani was ready to climb it. Over the next several painstaking days, the eager acolyte rolled up to the entry, jotting down every juicy bit until it was hers to own. All she needed now was a time and place.

A mile or so from the academy was a flowing stream, with a series of shallow caves offering a romantic view of the Thessian skies and stars; the perfect place to reach unparalleled heights of passion. Yondel and Nevani snuck out of their dormitory late that night and made their way to this secluded area, bringing along Nevani's scrawled notes. By firelight, they made themselves ready for the big moment, engaging in extended foreplay. Writhing and sliding against one another, this was sure to be a life changing experience for both of them. They had mastered every other technique and the Pillar would be their crowning achievement. Who cares if they were caught? The euphoria alone would be worth any punishment the academy could conceive. The two sex-tronauts got into position, completed all pre-flight checks. All systems were go for launch. Three… two… one…

Blast off…

The first twenty minutes must have defied description; each of their climaxes feeding into each other and generating yet another. Winning the lottery a million times over and having fashion models delivered to your doorstep on platinum trays three times a day would not even begin to describe the feeling of the waves of absolute pleasure washing over them. A strong blue biotic glow enveloped the cave. The light could be seen for miles around.

Even from the bedroom window of the head consort.

Soon it proved to be a bit too much for Yondel, who tried in vain to break free of her lover's embrace. Even Nevani, who so wanted to get off, wanted off. But the chain reaction their joining initiated would not be denied. The glow pulsated in time with their accelerating rhythms. Every nerve, every muscle was firing overloading, and straining past the breaking point until blood vessels in their brains, hearts and lungs burst in one final orgasmic, biotic explosion.

Blood was found oozing out of every orifice in Yondel and Nevani's bodies…. the parts of their bodies that could be identified. The Pillar was really only meant for short bursts and should have been akin to a cork riding a wave of highs and lows. But Nevani had built up high levels of tolerance and demand from her sex-capades, turning this wave ride into a rocket blasting straight past the event horizon and straight down into a black hole. Yes, lovers, there is such thing as too much of a good thing; everything in moderation. Savor those few blessed moments. Anticipate the next ones. Those who do not take the lesson of this story to heart may be setting themselves upon a doomed path…

To Eternity… and beyond!

Way #1001: Mindf***ed


	6. Thresher Maw

Time: May 19th, 2172  
>Location: Faldur Badlands, Tuchanka<p>

Be it hunter or fisherman, surfer or salesman, politician or painter, they all dream of the same thing:

The Big One.

The one achievement that will carve their names into legend. More often we hear about the ones that got away. The "almost-was-es" and "could've-beens." Boasts and claims with less substance than the alcoholic beverages they're recited over. But once in a great while the odd fish tale is attached to a whale of a story. And the impossible… is made real…

Ravanor Pran and Gueyyan Baltik were two of the best hunters and trackers that ever lived. At least that's what they claimed. An odd pairing, Pran was the senior of the two, well into eight hundred years of age, with Baltik just shy of two hundred. Their true stock and trade was scavenging and odd jobs. Dead end jobs no self-respecting krogan would take on. But together they eked out a charmed life for themselves filled with romance, adventure and credits while recovering parts, supplies, corpses or restoring machinery left deserted out in the Badlands. At times they also indulged in a little hunting and there was no shortage of game to choose from. Each trip out was a challenge due to roving packs of wild varren, carnivorous plants, disease-bearing insects or other beasts, to say nothing of the forbidding weather and terrain. They are common threats throughout all of Tuchanka, but in the Badlands… doubly so. But like many krogan, Pran and Baltik prided themselves in coping with danger and adversity. And they too dreamed of their Big One: bagging a thresher maw. In local legend, Urdnot Wrex was the only one to accomplish this on foot for as long as anyone can remember.

Averaging over ninety meters in length from tip to tail and fiercely territorial, thresher maws are gigantic worm-like creatures that are the undisputed rulers of their domain. A strange cross between plant and animal, they are able to take in sustenance from both organic prey and absorption of starshine and minerals from the soil. Solitary beings, their entire life cycle revolves around two activities: reproduction, via spores that can spread through and survive the rigors of space, and feeding. Every second of its life, every chance it can get. It's the thresher maw's _raison d'etre_: feed and breed.

And kill anything that gets too close.

One fateful afternoon, Baltik ran back to camp after scouting an area a ways ahead. Minutes before, the region was hit by a series of tremors. Pran was shaken but not stirred and had a bit of a time trying to get Baltik to speak coherently. A few panting breaths later, he was able to explain the reason for his excitement: the shaking earth wasn't caused by planetary plate shifts. Rather by something moving over and through the earth…

Baltik had spotted a thresher maw!

The couple didn't come prepared for a hunt this time around. But they did have the good fortune of salvaging a wrecked tonka earlier that morning carrying two working missiles. Using their combined know-how and some available spare parts, they were able to cobble together a rudimentary sled with a slope to mount and launch the missiles. Baltik led the way as he and Pran carefully dragged their homemade launcher to the maw's current resting place.

The eager hunters could just make out where the maw had settled underneath the sands. Pran got into position atop a rock face overlooking the exposed plain with the launcher while Baltik trotted out to the edge of the sand plain with another improvised concoction: an explosive lure made using a warhead from one of the missiles. Their plan was to get the thresher maw to pop up and swallow it. The resulting explosion, if it didn't knock it dead or unconscious, should be able to stun it long enough for the hunters to finish it with their remaining ordnance. Baltik began to whirl around with the lure like an Olympic hammer thrower, faster and faster. Finally, he released and it soared several dozen feet before hitting the ground hard. It was enough to stir the beast below and with a mighty roar it burst from the depths, taking the lure into its mouth… along with several hundred cubic feet of sand…

This was no ordinary maw Pran and Baltik had roused. This was none other than Kalros - the mother of all thresher maws!

It is to Tuchanka what Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are to Earth. Scores of blurred and low resolution holopics allegedly depicting the colossal beast have been taken over the years. Tales of its awesome destructive power have been passed down for generations. Many adventurers even set out to find it only to turn up with nothing… or not turn up at all.

Our intrepid hunters would have settled for any other maw – taking one down was challenge enough. But the cruel bitch goddess called Fate served up a true legend, one that was not in the least fazed or happy with its combustible snack. The Grand Maw pointed its head downwards as Baltik scrambled for the safety of the rock plateau, but it didn't lunge for him. Instead it spit out a highly corrosive stream of acid, the thresher maw's alternate mode of attack. Pran watched as the love of her life was doused and reduced to a melting, shrieking glob of flesh. To add insult to injury, Kalros then leaned in to dab up the remains. Pran launched her missile and managed to drive the creature back. Discouraged, it went back underground where it stayed while Pran stood over what little was left of her beloved.

This hunt just got personal.

The settlement she lived at was surprised to see her return from the Badlands alone. Pran marched back into her house and gathered up every weapon and explosive she could get her hands on, along with a vidcam and her life savings. She then burst into the local watering hole to hire out the most able, willing, or sufficiently drunk patron with access to a tonka to drive her back out to settle the score and record the battle for posterity. Deveg Granz accepted her offer. It wasn't as if he had better things to do. And if this was indeed the legendary Kalros, he would be the envy of town and the galaxy at large for confirming its existence, if he lived. He helped load up her stockpile and drove her back out to the campsite.

Using a small hoverskiff stowed inside the tonka, they closed in on the thresher maw's location. Pran strapped explosives all around her body. She could not bear to live without her dear Baltik. She would use herself as bait and then join her beloved in the afterlife as the mighty Kalros was brought down by her blaze of glory. Granz maneuvered his hoverskiff into the position Pran had taken earlier after letting her off. Filled up on liquid ryncol courage, he activated the vidcam and focused on Pran as she began her death march further and further out. She soon found herself in the middle of the sand pit, but Kalros wasn't taking the bait. Infuriated, Pran screamed and jumped about to get its attention. A few moments later, Kalros obliged. Again, the mighty maw reared skywards, bellowing just as Pran triggered her explosives. Granz caught every bright flash and crystal clear moment on vidcam. The creature began to sway back and forth and could be heard gasping. But then Kalros shrugged it off and arced downwards to spit out the pulpy mess of damaged tissue and leftover krogan from its throat before it disappeared into the ground again.

All over Granz and his hoverskiff.

The next morning a tonka was seen driving back into the settlement. Granz slowly and silently emerged from it and climbed down, still covered in slimy, smelly maw guts. Blankly, he went right back to the bar and sat down in his favorite chair. His friends and some of the locals wanted to know what happened. The bartender nudged his shoulder and he let out a bloodcurdling scream that lasted over a minute. After taking a few prescribed shot glasses of tranquilizer, Granz told a tale of a heartbroken woman's ineffectual last stand against a massive, spiteful beast: the thresher maw Kalros. Naturally, no one believed him. He reached to his side for Pran's vidcam… only to find it was missing. He searched over his tonka and hoverskiff with no luck. Apparently the vidcam was washed out of his hands and out of the hoverskiff when Kalros vomited on him. But he was in no hurry to run back to get it. So the legend of Kalros remains so to this day, just another tall tale spun by the odd barfly and traveler as caution or entertainment. But one still can't help but wonder: is this Big One real? Could such a colossal thresher maw really exist?

Just ask Deveg Granz…

Way #1091: Harrowed & Mawed

Author's Notes and Thoughts:

- Special thanks to DN7 for suggesting this story – sorry it took such a long time! Better late than never!

- Also based on Mass Effect codex entry for thresher maws, which are described as being carnivorous but also plantlike, thriving best on worlds with little or no atmosphere. Makes it kinda hard to get a meaty snack… unless they may have been specially engineered to prey on space faring species. Hmmm… can they also metabolize dextro-DNA as well as levo-DNA?


	7. Geyser Chicken

Time: August 21st, 2175  
>Location: Bohir Tals Nature Preserve, Henurc<p>

We here at 10,000 Ways are proud to carry on the tradition of bringing you stories of strange and bizarre demises. And like the show of old we're based upon, we know that some of the best ones often involve those individuals with severely impaired judgment, especially drunks.

We really should be ashamed of ourselves but there's no denying the fascination or the perverse fun. We watch in amazement as they tank up and flush money, motor skills and reason down the toilet. Usually they pass out after a while and that's the end of it. But sometimes they'll find the Broadway star they never knew they had inside and let it loose on a captive audience. Gain enough courage to march down to the other end of the bar and have it out with that loser that's been looking at them funny all night. Or just fight a pathetic, losing battle with gravity. And then there are those whose antics reach a whole new level of stupid…

It's nighttime at the nature preserve on the planet Henurc. Tourists and vacationers have all either returned home or bunked down at the campgrounds after a day of taking in all the beauty and majesty of the local flora and fauna. All is peaceful and calm.

Listen… do you hear that? There! Off in the distance, three shapes moving up along a lit pathway, whooping and cackling - the distinct cries of one of the preserve's nocturnal residents.

Inebrius Retardicus.

They sometimes travel in packs and come in a variety of shapes and plumages. This particular pack of three consisted of a human, a quarian and a turian.

Park rangers.

They had quite the plum assignment, making their rounds on the graveyard shift. The place was dead after hours, no one ever started trouble and all the wildlife was safe behind kinetic containment fields a good safe distance from the campgrounds. So the boys, bored out of their skulls and hopped up on their poisons of choice, turn the preserve into their own private amusement park.

Having a quarian for a pal comes in handy when you need to disable the odd security camera or containment field and cover up an evening of mischief. On each drunken escapade, they would come up with increasingly ridiculous and dangerous games to prove their manly worth. Hegarm Bull Tag. Peg the Tsurna Wasp Nest. Cross Country Streaking Through Vonnet Snake Territory - our quarian tech whiz couldn't participate in this event for obvious reasons. But on this night their ringleader, the human Ron Corey, came up with a doozy; a real test of daring and reflexes. With a clinking of bottles and a roar to the heavens, the Three Sloshketeers staggered forth to the field of battle.

The Thoal Geyser Field attracts thousands of visitors from all over the galaxy. Water flowing deep underground is brought to a boil by magma-heated rocks. The trapped steam builds up so much pressure that it suddenly and violently blasts up through a fissure in the earth and out a surface vent in a hydrothermal explosion. They can be spectacularly large or inconsequentially small. The Thoal field boasts geysers of varying sizes and tourists can walk along a specially constructed, shielded walkway that allows them be in the midst of these natural fountains.

Ronnie and his pals circumvented the walkway and walked onto the geyser field towards the smallest spout of the group. About every half-minute the miniature geyser would spew a narrow jet of hot steam for about six seconds. The object of the new game was simple: see how long and how close you could hold your head over the spout before it erupted. The quarian went first but chickened out after three seconds. The turian lasted longer… about five seconds. Three drunken morons playing Chicken with an active geyser - what could possibly go wrong?

Ronnie was disgusted at his friends' total lack of cohunes. Now he was gonna show 'em how it was done. The instant the spout reset, he fell on his knees and put his face right up to the mouth of the geyser. But he misjudged the local gravity just a bit… and wound up getting his head stuck in the hole. Ronnie's panicked friends tried their best to pull and pry him loose, but time was running out.

They had no choice but to scamper clear and leave Ron Corey to confront one of nature's wonders… head on.

The steam escaping the geyser was in excess of over 200 degrees Fahrenheit and more than Ronnie's pores were opened. The skin around his head severely blistered and flaked, his eyes rendered blind. And the superheated water vapor seared and damaged his lungs, causing suffocation. Ronnie struggled, screamed, gasped… and finally expired.

This put an end to the night games at the preserve. People were denied the privilege of viewing the Thoal Geyser Field for the next few days as authorities closed it off to investigate Ronnie's death and charge his buddies with abuse of office and reckless endangerment. It's a much different world when you're sober. That's why it often pays to never touch a drop. Or if you must drink, to drink in moderation and always have a designated driver even if there's no driving to be done, if only to save you from yourself. And as much fun as we bystanders may have at their expense, we should also get involved and keep those who are stewed from having too much of a good time.

No matter how steamed they may get…

Way # 2114: Old Face-full


	8. Skiff Collision

Time: July 10th, 2167  
>Location: Palturma Beach, Bysorrn<p>

A sweltering sun doesn't keep the beach from being filled to capacity. Residents and tourists with their blankets, canopies and nets pepper the shoreline. Beach bums and other reprobates ogle some of the more attractive denizens wearing the latest in scandalous swimwear. Vendors work the multitude selling their foodstuffs and wares. And people of all ages and species splash about in the cool, refreshing waters. Indeed it is one of the glorious dog days of summer.

Suddenly a vigilant lifeguard sounds the alarm to clear the water posthaste. Additional lifeguards mobilize to guide swimmers to safety. Tensions flare and worry sets in. Is it an incoming tidal wave? Or a megajaw on the prowl? An approaching shore guard craft verifies the threat:

It's a water skiff gone out of control. Its driver is hanging on for dear life.

Several attempts are made to kill its power cell using localized EMP bursts with no effect. Carbon emissions are then detected coming from the skiff. Turns out it has no power cell. It's using an old style, fossil fuel guzzling engine - illegal for use out on water and with no electronics to jam. One guardsman takes up a sniper rifle, hoping to knock out the skiff's propeller or take out its engine. But its movement is too erratic and dangerously close to civilians to get a clear shot. Efforts were instead concentrated on evacuating everyone from the water. Then the skiff leveled out with the driver still holding on tight. If it maintained course it would run aground and the shore guard could move in. It was a straight shot… except for one oblivious swimmer in the way…

Batarian Moab Shevac had recently taken up the human sport of surfing. For weeks he would head out into the water and practice catching some waves with varying degrees of success. He wasn't in training for any competition. Thrills and exhilaration were his only rewards. And he did it all to the driving beats of his own personal soundtrack: an MP9 player loaded to the brim with all manner of action music.

But on this day the ocean was calm. Nothing more to do than to paddle and float gently across the water with a specially customized, ambient relaxation mix. So relaxing that Moab couldn't help but take a nap face down with his MP9 at full hypnotic blare. Drifting ever closer to disaster.

Moab couldn't hear the bullhorn from the shore guard craft or the nearby swimmers. Not even the roaring engine from the oncoming skiff or its driver frantically calling out for him to clear the way stirred him from his peaceful, mid-morning slumber. Moab Shevac's unconscious state would be rendered permanent in one literal split-second.

The skiff piled through Moab's surfboard, reducing it to matchsticks, and cleaved his head down the middle. The combination of the skiff's forward and vertical inertia caused its prow to embed itself into the top of the batarian's spinal cord, shifting his body upward so that his limbs wrapped around the prow as well. A most disturbing figurehead for any seagoing vessel let alone the good skiff S.S Wayward.

Finally the out of control skiff made it to shore with Moab's body still attached while the shore guard found itself warding off the morbidly curious as they tended to the driver. He surrendered without further incident and was only fined for use of his gasoline engine. Nothing more could be done for the unfortunate surfer as authorities began the grim task of collecting the remains and notifying the next of kin. Poor Moab didn't demand much from life; just sunny skies, kickin' tunes and a perfect wave to ride upon. But the only perfect wave Moab would ever catch was a big wave goodbye to the mortal coil.

Surfin' time's up… Big Kahuna…

Way #8118: Head Like a Hull


	9. Intestinal Infection

Time: 500 BCE  
>Location: Prothean Ruins, Phosom<p>

War. War never changes. Not even for the salarians.

Before the discovery of the Citadel, the cold business of assassination and espionage were the specialties of the League of One, an elite group of twelve salarian operatives capable of blending in amongst anyone, infiltrating any defense… and eliminating any target with lethal precision. A special, ornate medallion was the only way to identify any one of its members. But this band of brothers baptized in blood was no match for backroom politics.

When the Salarian Union joined the asari in forming the Citadel Council, they declassified the activities of the League of One as a show of good faith towards their new partners. With their cover exposed, the League exacted revenge upon the inner cabinet before they fled and dropped off the grid. The Special Tasks Group was ordered to take them down. Yet even after sending in a team of hunters and ten of their best military minds, the STG failed to bring them any of the operatives to justice. Only recently have the fates of some finally come to light.

Though if he had his way, one might have preferred to remain anonymous…

The mineral wealth of the planet Phosom was still unknown when Jannud Teche set down upon its surface. A survivalist, his plan was to live off the land and lay low until his trail went cold before leapfrogging to the next hospitable planet. As the rations he brought with him dwindled to nothing, Jannud gathered a cache of edible roots and plants, identified fauna that could serve as viable sources of protein, set up shelter and built a solar still to gather and purify a supply of fresh drinking water. A hard, punishing existence for most, but performing the impossible was the hallmark of the League of One. Reviewing his accomplishments over a flame-roasted beast, Jannud had accounted for every need and difficulty.

Except for a nasty twist of fate.

A Richter 6 earthquake roused Jannud from his sleep. Rocks and boulders began to cascade down the hillside he made his home upon. Gathering whatever supplies and food he could, he barely escaped the shelter with his life, watching the rest of his labors get buried in seconds. Once the tremors subsided, Jannud set out to find a new, more stable location to hang his hat.

The quake had opened up a passageway Jannud overlooked in his initial survey of the landscape. He ventured inside the mysterious and foreboding hole to make the discovery of a lifetime: the remains of an underground prothean complex! Carefully scanning his surroundings for security systems or other dangers, he looked for any materials that he could put to use. There were crates and tubes with unreadable markings, observation rooms, empty stasis pods and a few cages with fossilized non-humanoid remains. Nothing he could readily utilize except the complex itself: a new, more robust shelter that offered protection from predators, the elements and earthquakes. He chose the tidiest observation room he could find to set up his gear and then set off to replenish his inventory.

Archaeologists with expertise in prothean antiquity would one day point out that the complex Jannud made his new home in was fact an old laboratory. A laboratory used for the investigation of infectious diseases.

And some of the bugs examined there had an extremely long shelf life.

A few days after moving in, Jannud began feeling ill and any blockage he may have suffered before was no longer an issue. At first he likely dismissed it as a bad batch of plants or undercooked meat, gone over with his omni-tool scanner repeatedly to ensure they were free of any germs.

Any known germs.

In humans, the backdoor backfire commonly known as diarrhea are caused by rotoviruses. It's believed that the expulsive symptoms are efforts to rid the body of these viruses. With steady re-hydration and medical treatment, most victims recover completely. Janud had apparently contracted a very potent form of rotovirus. His intestinal tract was soon reduced to nothing more than a tube; everything that went in one end came out the other in no time. Any medicine he brought with him was lost in the quake, not that it would have done him much good. The constant loss of water and nutrients made it harder for Jannud to think straight and maintain basic hygiene. His time, his lunch and his insides were running out.

There was one last hope: the transponder on his shuttle. He could use it to signal for help but this would alert any enemies of the League of One to his presence as well. It was a grave decision for Jannud: should he accept his fate and preserve the honor of the League? Or reach out and risk capture? Either possibility could be his end.

Weighing his options, Jannud ultimately decided that health outweighed honor and, with the little constitution he had, staggered out to his hidden shuttle. It was a long way to go to reach it. He probably should've turned around and gone back, seeing that he'd conveniently left himself a trail to follow. But he took his chances with the dice and rolled craps. Honor would be preserved after all.

The cause or personal well-being; what's worth more to a soldier? It all depends, but one fact is inescapable even in the fog of war:

Underwear. Underwear always needs changing.

Way #1941: The Halls of Montezuma's Revenge

Author's Note: The salarian League of One and the Special Tasks Group come from the Mass Effect codex. Side quests in the first game include finding medallions of some of the League operatives.


	10. Hired Help

Time: October 19th, 2180  
>Location: Van Gorcey Park, Bekenstein<p>

Be honest. Have you ever wanted to kill your boss?

That little drone that delights in making your life miserable? That makes you stay late and come in on weekends for no overtime? Micromanages you? Never once says anything positive about you? Or maybe you're one of the lucky few with a boss that actually treats you like a mature and rational sentient being? Well, Julissa Pruit was fed up with her boss. And rather than lodge a complaint with Human Resources or her union, she was gonna take matters into her own hands. You see, Julissa happened to be the housekeeper for a notorious weapons dealer who also fancied himself a patron of fine art. She wasn't in any position to file grievances even if she wanted to.

Because the dealer she worked for was a man named Donovan Hock.

Donovan had done well enough for himself to have a mansion built on the priciest real estate on planet Bekenstein, a veritable temple large enough to house the priceless works he collected along with his ego. When your illicit gains grant you free run of the galaxy, why even bother sweating the small stuff? That job fell on poor Ms. Pruit's shoulders as she struggled to keep Donovan's house in order while he was off dealing with buyers and sellers. He was out fairly often, the only relief she had from him, but upon each return he made up for lost time. Julissa stuck it out for two excruciating years. It seemed if even one day went by without Donovan ripping into her about some mistake she made or expectation she failed to meet, he couldn't function. Oh, Julissa hated him with a passion: his nitpicking, his inflated opinion of himself, his taste in clothing, in art… and that impenetrable accent! Donovan Hock was the Boss from Hell.

And he was also an obsessive compulsive.

He had a strange quirk when it came to pens. He would always hold and use them such that their clips faced away from him. And he insisted that anyone else in his presence should do likewise with theirs. This above all pissed off Julissa to no end, so she decided to make it his. Donovan had no shortage of enemies or competition, and Fate was certainly smiling on one of his fiercest rivals that day when she showed up offering her assistance in offing her employer. She even suggested the perfect means to do the job: rigging Donovan's favorite silver pen to explode. It was supposed to have been taken to be repaired and cleaned but instead it was handed over with assurances that a demolitions expert in the rival's service could modify the implement as Julissa desired. It would have made James Bond proud. The exploding pen was essentially a miniature Claymore that, when triggered, would blast deadly shrapnel towards the side opposite the pen clip. Donovan's little compulsion would become his undoing, revenge served with a side of irony. All she had to do now was get it back into his hands.

That morning was particularly busy as she tried to organize the house and staff for a party to be held for Donovan's clientele later in the evening. On top of whipping freshman staff members into shape and dealing with caterers, Julissa also had to contend with a delivery of more works Donovan had procured in his travels. Three hulking sculptures to be moved down and set up in the basement vault all before the stroke of six. Julissa was on the verge of a stroke herself. The deliverymen needed a signature - in ink, of all things - and as she frantically searched the house for a suitable implement her hired noobs were tripping over themselves yet again. Dazed, confused and just wanting the day to be over with, she ran into Donovan's office and grabbed a pen from his desk. She marched back up to the deliverymen, snatched the invoice from their hands and, unconsciously obeying Donovan's strange edict, turned her pen's clip outwards before clicking it open.

The blast tossed the hapless delivery folk backwards down the front porch. Stunned, injured, but still alive and intact. The same could not be said of Ms. Pruit, whose upper torso was parted from her hips, lying shredded and pockmarked on the floor, her face completely blown off. But a little thing like a botched assassination did not deter Donovan Hock from taking charge, ensuring that the mess was cleaned up quickly and that all was ready and in place for his party. Donovan would live to see another day and Julissa would never have to suffer under his hand ever again. She had literally signed her own death warrant in blood and smoke. In her case, the pen was indeed mightier than the sword.

And a whole lot messier…

Way #3030: Maid to Ordnance

Author's Thoughts and Notes:

- Donovan Hock was the main villain in the _Mass Effect 2_ DLC _Stealing Memory_, Kasumi Goto's loyalty mission.

- So far, that's ten tales of termination and counting! Keep posting your comments!


	11. Food Processing

Time: March 2178  
>Location: Territories of the Systems Alliance<p>

This story is a little change of pace from our usual fare but one we felt deserved special mention. Our subject, still very much alive, probably wishes they were dead. The firestorm this person set off would prove to be the cherry on top of an already tumultuous year for humanity.

A hard to stomach cherry.

Invitrotek Industries was one of the Systems Alliance's leading manufacturers of vat-grown products. For centuries humans had contended with a split within their ranks. Whether for health reasons or out of kindness to other life forms, some felt that a species of great intellect should not have to continue the act of consuming animal flesh, especially when plants could supply all needed proteins, vitamins and nutrients. Only a small percentage of humanity availed itself to passable meat substitutes made from plant matter while the rest were content to nosh on the real thing.

When human scientists finally perfected cloning technology, vat-grown meats appeared on the market offering guilt-free sustenance as well as consideration for one's well-being. Animals no longer needed to be raised en masse under questionable conditions. Now just a few select specimens were kept and allowed to live out full natural lives, receiving the best food and care, supplying only blood and tissue samples. A few "vintage meat" lines were even established for more discerning epicures. The strictest quality control was assured; all samples and vat runs were guaranteed free of defects, disease and contaminants.

It was up to our subject, a lab technician, to guarantee their particular line of cloned Omaha beef. Analyses were showing that runs were decreasing in quality but still within acceptable parameters. The line was nearing the end of its viability; time to culture a fresh batch. New cell samples were shipped in from the pasture and were taken in for a thorough screening. The technician worked quickly to get them cleared for replication and to avoid further degradation of the line. After several tense hours the new batch was secure and growing inside the vats. Our technician heaved a huge sigh of relief, removing the protective suit and gloves…

To discover a finger with a tiny, blood-stained hole.

The pinprick had long since clotted but our tech had a _biiiig_ problem: not only was the job at stake, to shut down the line now would disrupt supply and would take days, if not hours, to determine the level of contamination, impacting revenue the Omaha line brought in.

So our little technician… just… kept quiet…

The next few weeks saw an increase in the line's popularity. New orders were coming in from restaurants, schools and supermarket chains. Fortunately the new samples were cloned in time to meet the demand as product was nearly flying off the shelves. An already popular food line was hitting a new stride and talks were underway to begin selling the beef to other levo-protein species. But a student and her instructor in a quality control training class within Invitrotek derailed the gravy train, stumbling upon the meat's secret ingredient:

Twenty parts per hundred of the classroom sample tested positive for human tissue.

Reaction was widespread and wide-ranging. Many people were outraged and disgusted that they and their children actually enjoyed eating human flesh derivative. Some suicides were attributed to word of the contamination. Others thought little to nothing of the news. A few even ignored the recall altogether and finished their stocks; after all, it was hardly the first time foreign material turned up in the food supply. And what the people didn't know wouldn't kill them.

Other vat-grown food providers were quick to assure customers that their own products were not so afflicted and could never be, doubling up on inspections throughout their lines. Invitrotek's own bottom line was severely impacted as a result of boycotts on its other, unaffected products and protests by Alliance citizens. One particularly distasteful method of protest involved eating and then vomiting up the tainted meat on the doorstep of the corporate headquarters. The death blow to Invitrotek Industries was dealt when Martin Strenowic, founder of the Maya Pizza restaurant chain and majority stockholder of Biomeals, bought out the troubled company following a disastrous plunge in stock prices and a class action lawsuit.

The technician responsible for it all disappeared into obscurity, guaranteed anonymity and a stipend to maintain silence about the entire affair in an out-of-court settlement. To this day his or her identity is still unknown. He or she enjoys life as a private citizen and may have even found employment at your neighborhood market or eatery. And who knows? This person may even be hosting a barbecue you'll be attending tomorrow.

It'll probably be the best burgers and hot dogs you've ever had. And you could say the chef may have even put a little bit of themselves into every bite…

Bon Appetit!

Dishonorable Mention: Mystery Meathead

Author's Note & Thoughts:  
>Sometimes <em>1,000 Ways to Die<em> showed victims narrowly escaping a deadly situation, appearing later on camera to tell their story. This particular story was inspired by the recent announcement that scientists had created a burger patty entirely from cow tissue culture, the donor animal still very much alive. The scientists claimed that the taste of this patty "wasn't too horrifying." When I first heard the news I immediately thought of Joker's dead cow burger quote from _Mass Effect 2_. Then I thought a little more on how this new process could go astray…


End file.
